


In Session

by arcadian_dream



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Explicit Language, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Rough Sex, flangst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-18
Updated: 2011-04-18
Packaged: 2017-10-18 07:34:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/186482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arcadian_dream/pseuds/arcadian_dream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After sustaining a career-ending injury, and crashing a car into the front of Harry's house, Ron is forced to undergo counseling.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Session

Fidgeting, Ron stared at the wall in front of him. Adorned with framed prints of pedestrian landscapes, it was painted a shade of pale blue, though it's pallor was stronger than the colour it purported to be; it seemed to Ron to be something not _quite_ that definite. It was like the _idea_ of blue: the preincarnate germ of what it might one day be. But it wasn't yet.

Staring (what else could he do, really? he didn't know where to look in this place), Ron shifted in his seat. He glanced at the door. It would be easy enough, to get up and leave. To stand up and _just walk out the door_. Christ, he wanted to. It was _all_ he wanted to do at that moment. He certainly didn't want to be _here_.

 _Just walk out the door_.

Glancing furtively about the room, Ron took a deep breath. This was it; the moment. He made to get up and -

“Mr Weasley, Doctor Lovegood will see you now,” the receptionist called.

 _Shit._

Ron nodded his acknowledgement and, getting to his feet, dolefully followed the receptionist down the hall.

“Ah, Mr Weasley,” Doctor Lovegood said. She greeted Ron with a warm smile, ushering him into her office.

“Ron,” he said, taking the seat to which he had been directed.

“Of course,” Doctor Lovegood said as she, herself, was seated. Crossing one leg over the other, she reached for a notepad and pen on her desk; clutching them between slender fingers, she rested them against her knee.

“So, Ron,” she began, “why don't you tell me why it is that you're here.”

“Because the court mandated it,” Ron replied curtly.

“Mm-hmm,” the doctor murmured. Ron watched as her hand began to move across the first page of her notebook; the scratching sound of its nib against the paper reverberating loudly in the strained silence of the room.

“I see. And why is it that you think the court decided that?”

Ron shrugged. _I don't know_ he wanted to say, but couldn't quite muster up the words. And so he sat, silent, as Doctor Lovegood gazed at him; earnest and expectant.

He sighed. There was nothing for it. He was _actually going to have to say it_ .

“I suppose,” he said, “I suppose because I crashed my best mate's car into the front room of his house.”

 _Christ_ , he thought as he forced the words out; _did I really do that?_

Doctor Lovegood looked unperturbed. “And why is it that you think you did that?”

Ron sighed. He didn't know; truly, he didn't. Oh, he knew in _some_ way: he was angry, frustrated; and, as much as he hated to admit it, jealous. But at the same time, he didn't know how any of that became the actions he had committed.

He shrugged again; silent.

Doctor Lovegood cocked her head to one side, inquiring. “Well, Ron,” she said, running her tongue momentarily over her plush lower lip, thoughtful; “why don't you tell me how you think it all started.”

Ron nodded. _Of course_ , he thought; _of-bloody-course_. He was going to have to start at the beginning.

He was going to have to re-hash it all, all over again.

Groaning, Ron opened his mouth to speak and, after a hesitant pause, he began …

***

He remembers: it was a match, just a match. Like any other. Only not, not really. It was inconsequential, meaningless. A top side, in championship contention, playing against a team languishing at the bottom of the table.

It was nothing, really.

Ironic that, in the end, it would be everything.

Ron remembers: the sun, warm and blazing; golden rays bouncing off of the pitch, and players' backs, and the throng of fans in the stands. The glimmer of the ball. Ron sprinted; so did an opponent. An overzealous tackle and a tangle of limbs and the next thing Ron remembers, the next thing he _feels_ , is heat but not from the sun, not this time; white-hot and blinding it shot through his leg, fanning out from his ankle in a furious bloom.

It is all he remembers until waking in the hospital: it is all, save for the wavering image of Harry's face looming over him, his lips giving life to his concern; “Are you alright, mate? Are you alright?”

-

Whiteness, again. Blank walls and the antiseptic sting of cloying hospital air. Ron swallowed. He couldn't look at the doctor standing by his bedside. All he could see – all he could _bear_ to see – was the white walls before him (white walls; everything and nothing), the doctor's words fading into an insistent drone.

Blank. Nothing. It was over now; and there was nothing.

-

Touch woke Ron, a glancing of fingers on the inside of his wrist; tender. Late afternoon sunlight streamed in through the windows, warming the cold, white sheets enfolding Ron.

“Harry?” he said hoarsely, his eyes flickering open. His throat felt claggy; it tasted sour. He swallowed, attempting to clear it, but the taste would not abate.

“Hey mate,” Harry said, patting Ron on the shoulder. “How're you doing?” He smiled.

Ron tilted his head to one side, non-committal in his reply.

Harry nodded. “When do they say you can get outta here?” he said, looking about the room, but not at Ron; deliberately, Ron know, like he _couldn't_ look at him.

“Soon,” Ron said coldly. “Not that it matters.”

“What d'you mean?”

“This is it, Harry,” Ron answered. “This is it. They -”

“Wait,” Harry interrupted, “what're you -”

“Just – just that. _Exactly_ that. This is it.” Ron threw his hands up. “I won't play again. Not in six months or a year or fucking _ever_.” His voice dwindled to a strained whisper, like he was trying to yell, to scream (and he wanted to; _Christ_ , he wanted to), but he couldn't. Broken.

“It's alright, Ron,” Harry said, reaching placing his hand over Ron's. “It'll be alright. You'll - _we_ will get through it.”

Ron shook his head vigourously, snatching his hand back from Harry's grasp. “No, _we_ won't. You don't get it, do you? This is _it_ , Harry. My _whole life_ \- over. Completely, fucking _over_.”

“C'mon, mate. It's not that bad, you'll -”

“Yes, it _is_ that bad. And the fact that you can't even see that ...” Ron shook his head; he folded his arms across his chest.

He didn't know why he expected Harry to understand, but that fact that he didn't – well, it cut. Deep. Ron cleared his throat.

“I think you should leave,” he said.

“Ron, come on I -”

“Harry,” Ron said, shooting him a glare. “Just … leave.”

***

Ron took a deep breath. He waited for Doctor Lovegood to respond; he wasn't sure why. She didn't however; at least, not immediately. Moments passed amid the hasty scrawl of the doctor's pen and Ron's deep breaths, until she raised her pen to her lips and lifted her gaze to meet Ron's.

***

 _And why do you think you were so angry with – Harry, was it?_

Ron didn't know. He didn't know then, that day at the hospital; he didn't know as he recounted the events to his court-appointed counsellor, and he didn't know that night as he sat on his balcony, nursing a beer, and staring out over the city that had forgotten him.

***

A hangover; another. There was always another. There had been, ever since he'd tried – however futile his attempts might have been – to return to full fitness; to return to the career, the _life_ that he'd once had. His head throbbing, and his eyes - _fuck_ , they were dry; his lashes felt like shards of _Christ-knows-what_ scraping, scraping, scraping as he tried to open them, as he tried to keep them open.

And his ankle – Christ, his ankle. It ached. Dull, persistent. It always did in the morning; it always did after drinking.

Rolling onto his side, Ron glanced at the alarm clock.

It had already gone noon.

He was late.

***

“Have you thought anymore about what we were talking about last week?” Doctor Lovegood asked, ushering Ron into her office.

 _No_ , Ron wanted to say; _not for a fucking second_. But that – well, that would've been a lie. In truth, it was nearly _all_ Ron had thought about since his first appointment. But Ron couldn't say that. Not; not yet.

“Ron?”

“I'm sorry, Doctor,” Ron said, feigning ignorance of what had been said, as though he hadn't heard.

“Please, call me Luna.”

“Alright.” Ron took his seat.

“And I was wondering, if you'd given any thought to last week's session.”

“Oh.”

 _Oh_ , Ron thought. He should've known better than to think he would be able to avoid Luna's questions that easily. As if asking her to _repeat the question_ was any sort of method of avoidance anyway; at best, all it could do was delay and even that, only momentarily.

“Some,” Ron replied eventually.

“Good,” Luna said. “Good.”

“It's … hard. I can't even … I still don't.”

“What is it that you don't, Ron?”

Ron groaned. He didn't know. But he did. Or he felt like – there was _something_ , the seed of something that he couldn't quite _see._ Like the beginnings of blue on the wall of the waiting room.

***

He didn't know how, exactly, but after his session Ron found himself outside of a familiar house. Standing on the footpath, he gazed up at it; trying to take it all in but all he could see was the front room in its half-repaired state; all he could feel was a pang rising up from his belly, choking him.

Unsteady, Ron closed his eyes. He stepped back into the cab at curb-side.

He didn't see Harry looking down at him from an upstairs window.

***

"Hang on, hang on!" Ron called out as he stumbled through his flat, arms outstretched and reaching for the front door. Bleary-eyed, he fumbled with the lock momentarily and then eased the door open.

He barely had time to register who was standing in front of him when they started speaking.

"What do you think you're doing?" Harry asked. His face was set, severe even; his brow knitted, looming over a pair of bright green eyes.

"Harry," Ron said, as though it were an adequate answer to the question. "Harry."

"What do you think you're doing, coming to the house?" Harry repeated. He placed a hand against the door-frame. It almost, Ron thought, looked as if he was seeking it out as something to lean against, on; some support.

"I just –" Ron began, but faltered, uncertain as to what he _"just"_.

Harry drummed his fingers against the timber impatiently, waiting for Ron to continue. "Yes?" he said.

Ron opened his mouth to speak again, but found he couldn't. His tongue felt dull, heavy. He couldn't maneuver it, couldn't carve out the words that he wanted to say (the words that he suspected he wanted to say).

"You can't do that," Harry said as Ron stared. "You can't come to the house like that."

"I know," Ron said. "I know."

Harry shook his head. He sighed, exasperated and turned to go, but he hesitated, glancing back over his shoulder. Ron could've sworn his lips were parted; in a state of readiness, wanting to speak (to say what? _What, Harry? What is it that you want to say?_ ).

But Harry said nothing.

Ron stared as he disappeared down the hall.

***

"I saw Harry," Ron said, taking his seat in Luna's office.

She spoke, Ron knows she did (somewhere, _somewhere_ , he can detect the lilting murmur of her voice), but he has no idea what it is that she actually said.

All he could hear for certain was the sound of his own voice looping over and over and over again in his head:

 _I saw Harry._

 _I saw Harry._

 _I saw Harry._

***

 _"Tell me about you and Harry."_

That was what she had said Ron remembered that night as he lay in bed.

Like it was that simple.

It was, he supposed.

At least, before they slept together.

-

Ron remembers: he was in the rooms after training. Well, not exactly _after_ training, but during. Most of the boys were still out on the track but Ron – Ron _wasn't_.

Ron never would be again.

He'd made sure of that.

It had been a long road, getting back. Months and months of recovery (he thought he would go mad) but now, _now_ here Ron was: on the precipice of a return to the pitch, to the team, to his _life_

And then it had happened again.

His ankle, giving way under him. A searing jolt of pain, and then gone; nothing.

He couldn't run, he couldn't jog, he _couldn't._

He sat on the edge of the rubdown table, hunched forward; elbows rested on knees, head rested in hands, and hot tears stinging his eyes; seeping through splayed fingers and trickling over his palms and wrists.

"Ron?" a disembodied, though familiar, voice enquired.

"Not now," Ron said, not daring to look up, not daring to find out who it was that was seeing him like this.

 _"Ron,"_ they said again and this time, this time, Ron looked up.

It was Harry.

He approached Ron, leaning back against the table; standing close (God, _so close_ ) to him.

"You had to try, mate," Harry said softly.

Sniffling, Ron nodded. "Yeah," he croaked, wiping his eyes with the heel of his palms. "I did, didn't I?"

"Yeah. Of course." Harry placed a consoling hand on Ron's knee, his fingers fanning out over the scarred skin; over the flecks of mud and red-brown freckles.

"You'll be alright, Ron," Harry said.

Ron snorted, disbelieving.

"You will be. I'll make sure of it."

Ron swallowed: his throat, his mouth, felt too full all of a sudden. Of saliva, of salt; of un-cried tears, and unspoken words.

"Alright," Harry said, patting Ron's knee. He made to move away, but Ron reached for his arm and stopped him.

"Don't go," he said. "Don't go, Harry."

Harry turned back, acquiescing to Ron's request. With a grunt, he raised himself up onto the table. They sat, side-by-side, in silence for a minute; two and then Ron brushed his tear-streaked lips against Harry's – a surprise, and yet not.

"Don't go," he repeated, again and again and again as they fell to the table in each other's arms; Ron's ankle aching and his cock throbbing and the weight of Harry – Harry, all that he had left in the world - pressing against him.

 _Don't go._

 _Don't go._

 _Don't go._

***

He had driven him away.

Lying in bed, Ron knew: the drinking and fighting and _sheer-bloody-frustration_ of it all.

He had driven Harry away.

And now, all that he wanted was what he once had, but no longer held.

***

It was the middle of the night when Ron knocked on Harry's front door.

"What the hell?" Harry murmured through a yawn as he opened the door and Ron, without waiting for an invite, pushed past him into the house.

"Ron!" Harry called out, grabbing him by the wrist and thrusting him backwards. "What do you think you're doing?"

"I need to talk to you," Ron replied, advancing on Harry once more. Harry, in turn, put his hands up against Ron's chest, as if to push him back.

"I don't know that there's anything to say," Harry said. His hands were still on Ron, but he had held off from exerting any force.

"I'm sorry," Ron spat, his eyes pleading. "I'm sorry, OK?"

"I know," Harry said, apparently unmoved. "You said so in court."

"And is that it?" Ron asked, wide-eyed. Desperate. "Is that it?"

"Is there more?"

Ron shook his head. This – this _wasn't_ how this was supposed to happen. He was supposed to apologise, Harry was supposed to forgive him and they were …

 _What?_ Ron asked himself in silence. _What?_

"If there's nothing else, Ron," Harry said, urging Ron backwards.

"Wait," Ron said; _"wait"_.

"For what, Ron?"

"For, for … this isn't how it's supposed to go, Harry. This isn't – isn't …"

Ron trailed off, he couldn't find the words. Frustrated, he clenched his teeth. "Don't you know how hard this was for me?" he asked, his fists balled at his thighs.

"Hard for you?!"

"Yes! Hard for me. _Christ_ , Harry. You have _everything_. Fucking _everything_. Everything that I lost and –"

"Everything?" Harry shouted, interrupting Ron's tirade.

"Yeah, everything."

Harry scoffed. "Christ, Ron, you really are thick sometimes. I don't want fucking _everything_. I'd give it all away – here," Harry said, reaching for things that weren't there, mimicking their existence and thrusting invisible possessions at Ron. "Take it, take it all, Ron. I don't want it. All I want – all I _ever_ fucking wanted was you, you _berk._ "

"You – you –" Ron started but soon lapsed into silence gazing at Harry. Gazing at those eyes, and the unruly shock of thick black hair falling across his forehead, and the rise of his cheekbones, and the gentle jut of his chin and, and, and … the way Harry is looking back at Ron. Charged.

Wordlessly (perhaps were no words; not for them), Ron reached for Harry. Taking him roughly in his arms they staggered backwards into the house. Lips, pressed hard and flush against one another; a furious mash-up of skin and teeth and tongues and gasping, languid breaths; arms, fingers grasping; clawing, tearing; Harry slipped his hands beneath Ron's shirt, laying the palms of his hands against as much of Ron's torso as he could and they crashed, hard, against the hall wall.

"Fuck," Harry hissed into Ron's mouth, his head colliding with the plaster.

"Sorry," Ron mouthed back against Harry's lips as his cock stirred to life between his legs. Pushing his body up against Harry, Ron rutted against him and _Christ_ it felt good; it felt fucking _amazing_ , like Ron hadn't felt in _ages_ and all he wants is moremore _more_ of it, of Harry, of his lips and breath and skin and the feel of Harry growing hard against him.

"Fuck me," Harry whispered, his tongue flicking Ron's lower lip as he scrambled for Ron's belt, loosening his trousers. _"Fuck me."_

Ron stepped back; he stumbled over his trousers before he managed to discard them entirely. Grabbing Harry by the shoulders Ron kissed him, long and slow, before turning him to face the wall. Standing behind Harry, the head of his cock grazing Harry's back, Ron spit into the palm of one hand and, parting Harry's arse cheeks with the other, he slathered Harry's opening with saliva and entered him, groaning as Harry winced at the rough entry.

"You alright?" Ron whispered, resting his chin of Harry's shoulder, moving against him.

"Yeah," Harry replied hoarsely, moaning as Ron took his earlobe between his lips and sucked as he thrust into him. "Yeah," Harry repeated; "of course."

***

When Ron woke, it was to a smile: Harry's, and his own. His ankle, his thighs, his _everything_ ached.

He had never felt anything so glorious.

"I did mean it, you know," he said to Harry who was lying next to him, his fingers looping slowly around Ron's cock.

"Mean what?"

"That I was sorry. That I _am_ sorry."

"I know, mate," Harry said, "I know."

He smiled at Ron, and Ron smiled in return, and he realized: he hadn't lost anything; he had always had Harry, and that was everything.

***

The next week, Ron missed his appointment with Doctor Lovegood.

He never went back again.


End file.
